When We Go Crashing Down
by Klyntaliah
Summary: After the events of CA:TWS, Clint begins to realize that things have changed more than he thought, and not for the better. And as time goes on, they seem to be steadily becoming worse. Clintasha, alternate timeline. Some Clint!whump, T for language. Follows the MCU pretty closely until THAT movie. You know which one I'm talking about.
1. Toronto

It was that stupid Ontario job that did it.

Hill assigned it in January, and shipped his seething ass off to Toronto before he had time to argue. His orders were to maintain his cover for as long as necessary, and to track the movements of a disreputable league of rowdies before reporting back to SHIELD. Simple, standard, solo.

Some three months later, while holed up in a safe house bordering Brampton, he saw it all go down. Standing in front of the TV with his jaw slack, he watched in horror as sheer chaos rained down on the capital. The Triskelion crumbling. Helicarriers exploding. Half of SHIELD's best operatives, exposed as traitors.

And then there she was. Sitting in a court council, arms crossed, dryly informing the committee general who asked for a word from Rogers that she thought "the rock in the middle of the Potomac made his point fairly eloquently", all the while exuding that all-too-familiar attitude of slightly pissed-off boredom.

Clint lowered himself onto the arm of the sofa to watch.

"There are some on this committee," one of the council members was saying, "who feel – given your service record both for this country and against it – that you belong in a penitentiary, not mouthing off on Capitol Hill."

Clint grimaced.

Natasha, however, was clearly unimpressed.

"You're not gonna put me in a prison. You're not gonna put any of us in a prison." She tilted her head. "You know why?"

The council member took a stab at sarcasm. "Do enlighten us."

"Because you need us," Natasha said bluntly. "Yes, the world is a vulnerable place, and yes, we helped make it that way. But we're also the ones best qualified to defend it." She gazed coolly at the council member. "So if you want to arrest me, arrest me. You'll know where to find me."

She stood without ceremony and left the council.

The footage cut to a clip of her badass walk out of the courtroom, and the news anchor resumed her commentary.

"This hearing took place on Sunday afternoon, just days after the public exposure of SHIELD's so-called 'Project: Insight'. According to U.S. government administrators, Captain America continues to remain MIA, while SHIELD's own director, Nicholas Fury, has been pronounced KIA. Ex-soviet agent Natasha Romanoff, codename Black Widow, has also gone off the grid, and court officials who attended the hearing have said…"

The news anchor droned on, but Clint had stopped listening. His sharp eyes had caught a glimmer of silver at Natasha's throat… was that…?

 _You'll know where to find me._ Natasha's words echoed in his mind, and suddenly, he understood. Natasha was AWOL. The U.S. government wouldn't know where to find her, that comment couldn't have been for them. The necklace, the parting words… it was a message.

And Clint knew exactly where she was.

He sprang off the couch and headed into the kitchen.

In the doorway, he froze.

Natasha was sitting on the countertop, running a scrap of cloth along the blade of a short, silver knife. She didn't meet his bewildered gaze, just calmly focused on her task as he struggled to work out what she was doing here.

"Thought you'd be in Ottawa," he said at last. "The rendezvous point."

"Got tired of waiting," she said without looking up. Clint narrowed his eyes, disbelieving.

Gradually, he began to understand. The 'message' hadn't been a message at all – it had been a ruse to convince him that she was in Ottawa, so she could catch him off guard.

And at last, he understood why she was here. He knew what she wanted.

Clint leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, folding his arms. "You know you really should start calling ahead. Give a guy some warning."

Her lips twitched into a smirk. "And spoil the surprise?"

Clint shifted his posture, forcing himself to relax despite his wariness.

"I heard SHIELD went to hell. Puts me in a tight spot, seeing as protocol dictates a full post-mission debriefing. And, from what I hear, there's little to no reliable senior agents I can report to." He jerked his chin upward. "Nice hair, by the way."

Natasha finally looked up, her green eyes fastening on him. "With the way things stand, that's the least of our worries right now."

"What, the hair or the debriefing?" Clint joked. He pushed off the doorframe and took a step forward.

The tension in the room palpably thickened.

"Rogers?" Clint said.

Natasha resumed her knife-cleaning. "He's off the map."

"And?"

Her eyes slid up to his. "That's all I know."

 _Liar._

Clint took another step forward. "What about—?"

She lunged at him so swiftly that, although he'd expected it, he could hardly have reacted had he tried. He landed hard on his back, her knee pinning his chest to the floor.

Her face was inches from his, eyes sparking with dangerous ferocity as she pressed the knife to his throat.

" _Say it,"_ she hissed, twisting his arm until his shoulder seared hot. "I want to hear you say it."

Clint's eyes were watering, and he winced as his arm began to throb. " _I'm not HYDRA,"_ he growled through gritted teeth.

She yanked his shirt front and slammed him into the floor.

"Like you mean it," she snarled.

Clint forced his pain aside and concentrated instead on her anxious green eyes. No, not anxious – terrified. She was afraid that her partner, her best friend, the person who had taught her trust, had lied to her from the beginning. Had betrayed her.

Clint took a slow breath.

"Nat. I'm not HYDRA."

Her eyes narrowed critically, and her grip on his arms tightened as she searched his face. A moment passed in tense silence.

Then the pressure on his arms relaxed, and she let out a breath of relief, closing her eyes.

"Thank God," she murmured.

She rolled off of him and stood up, then reached for his hand, pulling him to his feet. "I had to check," she said by way of apology.

"Would've been offended if you hadn't," he grunted, massaging his aching shoulder.

Her eyes tracked the motion and she stepped forward, brushing his hand away, then pulled the neckline of his shirt aside to inspect the injury. His skin smarted where she had twisted the limb, Indian burn-style, and when she glanced at him, her expression was almost apologetic. She ran her cool knuckles past the inflamed skin with surprising gentleness.

"So fill me in," Clint said at last, and she looked up. "What the hell's going on in D.C.?"

Natasha's hand slid off his shoulder and she crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter.

"Well, for starters, Fury's not dead."

Clint chuckled. "That son of a bitch, I knew it," he said, and then, "What about Rogers? Heard he was MIA."

Natasha grew serious. "He went after the Winter Soldier."

Clint furrowed his brow. "The Winter Soldier? You mean the one who…? In Odessa…?" At her nod, he continued, "You said it was a dead end."

"It was," Natasha replied. "He was nothing but a ghost story… until Fury made Pierce unlock SHIELD's intelligence database. It's all out there now, everything they've been hiding."

"Hang on. Pierce?" Clint repeated. "Secretary Pierce?"

"HYDRA," Natasha confirmed.

Clint scowled. "Anyone else we know?"

"Rumlow," Natasha said. "Jack Rollins, and Jasper Sitwell."

Clint glared at the floor. He'd done ops with each of these men – it was hard to comprehend that they had been double agents from the beginning. He was quiet for a moment, thinking.

"So what now," he asked finally.

Natasha exhaled. "Now we run," she said. "SHIELD's been labeled a terrorist organization, which means we're not just on HYDRA's hit list – we're considered threats to national security. I blew all my covers to expose HYDRA, I need to disappear. And SHIELD safe houses aren't exactly safe anymore; you can't stay here. You need to be out by tonight."

"Twenty-two hundred, I'm gone," Clint agreed. He paused. "But I think you're kind of missing the obvious."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"We could stick together," Clint said, trying to sound casual. "We'll find someplace to lay low for a while until this all blows over.—"

Natasha was already shaking her head. "We can't do that. That's exactly what they're expecting us to do. Our chances are better if we split up." She quirked an eyebrow. "Also… last week, I was SHIELD's most wanted fugitive. I'm kind of a hazard to be around right now."

"When aren't you," Clint muttered.

She smiled then – a real, genuine Natasha-smile that made him realize how much he'd missed her. And how much he was _going_ to miss her.

"Anyway." Natasha straightened, still smirking a little. "Now that I've confirmed you're not secretly a Nazi."

Clint smiled. "I'll see you, Romanoff."

"Watch your back."

She headed for the door.

Clint shoved his hands into his pockets and watched as she opened the door, then stopped abruptly on the the threshold. She faced him, frowning.

"You never asked if _I_ was HYDRA."

Clint looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then crossed the room to where she stood.

"Didn't need to," he said quietly. Then he bent and impulsively swept a kiss past her cheek.

"Goodbye, Natasha."

He closed the door.

Said stupid Ontario job may have laid the foundation, but it was that goodbye that set the thing in stone. If he'd argued his point, if he'd convinced her that they should stay together, things might have turned out much differently.

* * *

 **Finally back with another long-ish fic! :) I actually started this one aaages ago, set it aside, found it again, and decided to finish it. I feel like the plot is really iffy, but I think it has some good bits, so I decided to post anyway.**


	2. New York City

It was nearly a year before he saw Natasha again.

Months after the fall of the Triskelion, Rogers contacted him, requesting his presence in Manhattan. By then, sufficient time had passed for Clint to feel confident that he could return to the States without finding the U.S. Marine Corps on his tail. He took the next flight to New York and arrived at Stark Tower the following Friday.

"Good evening, Agent Barton." JARVIS's familiar, accented voice greeted him as he entered the lobby. "It's good to have you back."

"Good to be back, Jarv," Clint said, glancing fondly at the ceiling.

"Mr. Stark has asked me to inform you that there are now private sleeping quarters available on the eighty-fifth floor. Should you choose to remain in the tower for the night, you are welcome to any room you prefer."

Clint nodded. "So where's Nat, and everyone else?"

"The Avengers are assembled on the ninety-third floor. Shall I let them know you've arrived?"

"No, thanks." Clint smiled as he started for the elevators. "Think I'll surprise her."

"Very well, sir."

 **.** **.** **.**

Clint found the team gathered in a brightly-lit conference room, just down the hall from the elevators. They were all there; Banner and Thor, conversing by the table, Stark, thumbing through a file. And there, chatting with Rogers by the wall, was Natasha.

A smile crossed Clint's face upon sight of her. He realized suddenly how long it had been since he'd seen her last; how much he'd needed to see her. He could still only discern her profile as she spoke indistinctly to Rogers, but then Rogers noticed him and nodded a greeting, and she turned and saw him. She smiled across the room, and he grinned back, disproportionately pleased by the gesture.

Natasha headed toward him, Rogers following.

"Looks like we can cancel the search party," she teased, drawing to a halt in front of him.

"Guess so" was the only response he could formulate. Her eyes twinkled as she smirked up at him. Standing so close to her after so long was making him feel almost giddy, and he knew he was grinning like an idiot. He struggled to control his features.

"How's the arm?" she asked, arching her eyebrows playfully.

"I'll live," he replied.

She tilted her head, amusement showing in her eyes. "You sure?"

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Hey. For the record? I _let_ you knock me onto my ass."

She snorted. "Keep telling yourself that."

(At this point, Rogers said something and shook his hand. Clint barely registered the greeting and managed a vague response before Rogers moved away.)

"How have things been since D.C.?" Natasha asked, folding her arms

Clint shrugged. "Well, you know. Been keeping my head down. Moving around a lot, trying to stay under the radar. You?"

"Same deal. I was pretty much a ghost before Steve contacted me." She quirked an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have come, but I wanted to see the remodel."

"So you been here a while?"

She half-smiled. "Long enough to know it's too big for the six of us. Seven, counting Pepper," she corrected herself. "Steve and I have been here a few weeks now, and we haven't seen half of it."

"So Stark really did a number on it, huh?"

She nodded. "From what I hear, the damage after New York was pretty extensive. He's been working on it since and pretty much revamped the place." She glanced up at him, smirking a little. "I've been hearing it called 'Avengers Tower'. Has a nice ring to it."

Clint nodded absently, a smile playing at his lips as her gaze moved across the room. Her smile, her voice, her expressions, it was all reminding him just how long it had been, just how much he missed out on when he was away. Until then, he hadn't really been aware of how much he enjoyed talking to her, just _talking._ She was his best friend. And it had been a while since he'd really acted like it.

She was watching Stark and Rogers across the room, distracted, and before he could stop himself, he said quietly, "I missed you."

She looked up at him then, and her face softened. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tipped his chin down, watching her earnestly.

She seemed about to say something, but at that moment, Thor called out:

"Now that Agent Barton has joined us, we ought to begin the discussion."

The others began to move toward the conference table, and Natasha followed. Feeling rather frustrated, as though he had been interrupted from something important, Clint followed, sliding into a corner seat. Rogers stood at the head of the table.

"Alright," he said. "Let's get started."

 **.** **.** **.**

The conference was brief, and more an update on developments in the intelligence community than a briefing, which was what Clint had been expecting. The matter at hand was that, not long after New York, SHIELD's Scientific Training and Tactical Intelligence Operative Network had been compromised, and Loki's mythological scepter had been appropriated by HYDRA. Now HYDRA was using the scepter for their own misguided purposes, and the risk involved with their possession of it grew as their scientists acquired more knowledge about its properties and abilities. At present, the Avengers could take no action concerning the scepter, as SHIELD did not yet know its location. SHIELD had teams searching across the globe, and Commander Hill had asked Rogers to update the Avengers, and to have them on standby when the scepter was located. As soon as Rogers judged that it was safe to assemble the Avengers again, he had contacted each of them. Now, all they could do was wait.

When the meeting was over, the team retired to one of the many lounge areas in the Tower: a fairly small room whose warm, quiet lamplight illumined a circle of cozy armchairs and sofas arranged around a low coffee table. Pepper joined them there not long afterward, having worked late at Stark Industries that evening. As months had passed since most of them had seen one another, they naturally had a lot to catch up on, but after filling each other in, the conversation gradually turned to the subject of the conference.

"So let me get this straight," Banner said, sitting forward in his armchair. "Loki's scepter was being held at SHIELD S.T.A.T.I.O.N., and then this Smith guy just crosses off his colleague and runs off with the scepter. So Smith was HYDRA, right?"

"Sure looks that way," Stark confirmed, joggling his knees up and down. "But it's also looking like he didn't jump on the Nazi bandwagon till pretty late in the game, probably around the time this went down."

Banner frowned, scratching his head. "And do we know how someone so volatile ended up at SHIELD S.T.A.T.I.O.N.?"

"Well, he'd actually been in ops for a few years before he was moved to the S.T.A.T.I.O.N.," Stark replied. "Turns out he wanted to be assigned to the Helicarrier, but Hill did an eval and realized he was a little psycho. Put him in R&D instead."

"Maybe there is more to this story." Thor was rubbing his chin, brow furrowed. "This Mark Smith had been studying and experimenting with my brother's scepter before he killed his companion and joined HYDRA. Perhaps the scepter had an effect on him and caused him to think and act irrationally."

"We won't know for sure until we can get the scepter back into SHIELD labs and find out what it's capable of," Rogers said. "For now, I'd say it's unlikely. Smith's colleague wasn't affected, and we know Smith had a history of unpredictable behavior. Still, it's worth exploring."

Clint was frowning at Rogers, only half-listening to the speculations. When they'd settled into the lounge an hour earlier, he'd glanced at Natasha, automatically expecting her to join him on the couch.

Instead, she'd surprised him by taking a seat next to Rogers, and now he was trying not to feel jealous as they murmured to one another between general conversation with the others. Natasha did trust people, more so now than before, but Clint was accustomed to being the only person she considered a _friend._ He knew that she and Rogers had spent a lot of time together in DC, so it made sense that they'd bonded. He also knew he should be happy that Natasha was finally opening up to other people and making new friends, but strangely, he felt almost irritated.

"...and that's pretty much all we know right now," Stark was saying.

"So we still don't know exactly what prompted Smith to go all renegade on us?" Banner asked.

"They're working on it," Stark replied. "Our best bet right now's another mole inside S.T.A.T.I.O.N.. Someone had to have introduced him to the dark side."

"It seems like a pretty risky time for HYDRA to have an inside man," Pepper commented. "No one's loyalties are clear right now; anyone could say they were spying on SHIELD and report on HYDRA."

"Not to mention infiltrators who could have their own agenda and inform on both agencies," Banner pointed out.

"Yeah, well intel security's a big deal at SHIELD. ALways has been," Stark said. "The stakes may be higher this time, but it's certainly nothing new…"

Clint's attention slid again when Natasha leaned over to say something to Rogers. Rogers bent his head toward her, listening; his arm was resting on the back of the couch just behind her, so that he was almost putting his arm around her.

Something malicious flared hotly in Clint's chest, and he scowled.

 _Cut it out,_ he chided himself, averting his gaze. _You're being a jerk and you know it. It doesn't matter who she spends time with, and it's none of your business anyway._

But, despite his good intentions, his resentment didn't fade. He glared at the floor, determined to quell his childish pettiness.

 _Since when did I get so territorial?_ he wondered, genuinely confused. _I'm not usually like this, am I? She isn't mine; I know that. She isn't anyone's. So why do I care so much?_

"Well, I think I'd better call it a night," Banner said, getting to his feet.

"Hey, there's brand-new rooms down on the eighty-fifth floor," Stark said. "Pick any one you want. Jarvis'll show you if you can't find it."

"Thanks, Tony," Banner called as he headed to the elevators.

Silence hung in the air as his footsteps receded down the corridor.

"So what's next for the Avengers?" Pepper asked at length.

Stark shrugged. "More waiting. The government has stopped trying to kill us for the most part, but until we know more, we can't actually do anything yet."

"When SHIELD calls us, we will be ready," Thor said.

Another thoughtful silence passed. Then Rogers shifted.

"Think I'm gonna turn in, too," he said. "See you guys. 'Night, Tasha." He leaned over and kissed Natasha on the lips.

Something heavy collided with Clint's chest, and he couldn't breathe. He was frozen, stunned, and for a minute he couldn't even think.

The next thing he knew, Rogers had left the room, and the others were calmly resuming their conversation as if nothing unusual had occurred.

Clint's head was buzzing, and he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. What was going on? Why did no one else seem concerned? And why did he have a sick feeling in his stomach?

He mumbled an excuse and got up, heading for the hall. The others might have told him goodnight; he wasn't sure. He wasn't paying attention.

Somehow he found his way to the elevators and pressed the button. He had hardly stepped on when he heard quick, light footsteps coming up the hall. The doors started to close, then jolted back open as a hand stopped them, and Pepper slid in beside him.

"You didn't know," she said as the doors closed and the elevator trundled downward. It was an observation rather than a question.

Clint considered playing dumb – _didn't know about what?_ – but decided against it. The conversation was inevitable at this point, and Pepper was probably the best person to talk to about this anyway. Whatever 'this' was.

"What gave it away?" he asked instead, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Pepper smiled slightly but didn't supply the obvious answer. In the moment, he'd lacked the presence of mind to mask his reaction.

Clint cleared his throat, trying to appear more casual than he felt. "So they're…?"

"They're together, yes," Pepper said. She was watching him closely, and he could tell he wasn't fooling her. Though exactly _why_ this was bothering him so much, he wasn't sure, and was somewhat wary of pondering.

"How long?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't know. At least since they've been here. Probably longer."

Clint knew the two of them had worked together in DC while he was in Ontario, so they could well have been "together", whatever that entailed, as long ago as all that. And what had Natasha said?—" _Steve and I have been here a few weeks now, and we haven't seen half of it."_ Not Rogers – _Steve._ And this meant that it had been going on for at least a few weeks. Yet Natasha hadn't bothered to tell him. Of course, she wasn't required to tell him anything about her personal life, and he knew that. But they were best friends, and he just couldn't fathom why she would have _wanted_ to hide any of this from him.

As if reading his mind, Pepper said, "I don't think she was trying to keep it from you, Clint. She probably just assumed you knew."

"But she told all of _you,"_ Clint said, rather peevishly.

Pepper chuckled wryly as the elevator dinged open and they stepped off. "Well, she didn't exactly make an announcement," she said as they started down the hall. "You know Natasha. She's not the kind of person who just goes around volunteering that kind of information. Tony suspected something when they got here, and you know how he hates secrets. He had it out of Steve early on."

"And Thor and Banner… they know?" Clint asked as they rounded a corner.

Pepper nodded. "It's been common knowledge around here for a while now. I think the novelty has worn off a little, and none of us are really used to thinking of it as a secret or even as surprising anymore. I just happened to glance at you when they kissed, and when I saw your face I realized you didn't know…"

Clint was silent for a moment, thinking.

He felt Pepper look at him. "I'm sorry, Clint."

This sentiment was so in agreement with the confusion and disappointment he was feeling that it took a minute for him to process that it was an unusual thing to say in this situation. Why should she feel sorry for him? Shouldn't they be happy for their friends? And, come to think of it, why _was_ he disappointed?

He stopped short and turned to her, puzzled. "What for?"

Pepper looked at him in surprise. "Well, it's always been obvious to me that you have a thing for Natasha."

Clint stared at her.

The elevator chime sounded, and Pepper glanced up the hall. "I should go now," she said. "Goodnight, Clint."

She continued on down the hall. Clint stared after her, stunned.

So Pepper thought he had a "thing" for Natasha. Thought it was "obvious". Granted, it wasn't the mere idea of having any kind of a "thing" for her that he was confounded by; he'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about it. They'd worked in close proximity for years; they were young, and she was witty and talented and intelligent and fascinating and so _beautiful._ So, naturally, there'd been a time, maybe even a few times, when he'd wondered. When he'd considered the idea of their being… something _more._

What had really taken him by surprise was "it's always been obvious". Like it was something ongoing. Perceptible. Whatever romantic feelings Clint may have harbored for Natasha at any point in the past, he'd convinced himself were no more than a passing fancy, a daydream. An inevitable result of their physical and emotional closeness. Certainly not something that was "obvious", that had been affecting him for years and continued to affect him now. Certainly not something that was _real._

"Made up your mind yet?"

The voice— _her_ voice—startled him, and his head jerked toward the sound. She was striding down the hall, smirking, and he couldn't, he _couldn't_ do this right now. Not when things were so uncertain. Not when he was still trying to figure out exactly how much she meant to him.

"I wouldn't lose sleep over it," she said, pausing outside a nearby door and grasping the knob. A smile was playing at the corners of her green eyes. "They're all the same. Master bathroom. Kitchenette. Stellar view of the city."

Her voice was light and edged with impish laughter. Her eyes crinkled as she looked at him, and he thought he'd never fully appreciated just how much they could sparkle when there was laughter hidden behind them.

Then Natasha frowned. She let go of the doorknob and approached, drawing to a stop in front of him.

"What's wrong?"

 _Dammit._

Clint shrugged. "Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms. Twisted her mouth skeptically to one side.

"Nothing, it's just…" _It's just that you're my best friend and you're beautiful and I know that you kissing Rogers shouldn't be a problem but I'm starting to think maybe it is…_

"Barton?"

"It's nothing," Clint repeated. He paused and looked away. "At least, nothing I want to talk about."

A moment passed.

Then Natasha was nodding slowly, taking half a step back, and he knew that she wasn't going to push it, that she would respect his silence.

But then she said, "Since when do you keep secrets from me?" And he scowled, because wasn't she one to talk about keeping secrets?

"Since when have you and Rogers been a thing?" he retorted, before he could stop himself.

Natasha's eyebrows shot up; clearly this was not what she had been expecting. He could see her mind whirring, trying to connect this question to his behavior and coming up empty.

"Not long," she said finally. "Why?"

Clint avoided her eyes. "I dunno, I just… thought you would've told me," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I mean, not because—I mean, I just…" He trailed off.

Natasha was studying him closely.

"Thought you would've told me," he finished lamely.

Natasha was quiet for a long moment.

"So you're pissed I didn't tell you about me and Steve."

Clint shrugged.

Natasha quirked her lips to one side again.

"I forgot you didn't know," she said, and he believed her. And he hated it. Because at least if she had, for whatever reason, wanted to keep this from him, he would have been singled out. Set apart from the others somehow. Instead he was simply forgotten.

"Is that all?" she asked.

Clint swallowed.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's all."

He chose the nearest doorknob and slipped into the room. Natasha didn't try to stop him.

Clint waited until Natasha had left before collapsing on his bed and covering his face with his hands. Pepper was right. He had a thing for Natasha, though exactly what kind of a "thing" remained unclear. Maybe it was love; he didn't know. All he knew was that he cared about her more than anyone else in the world, more than he could ever remember having cared about someone, that seeing her again was like waking up, that it was becoming hard to focus on anything else when she was in the room.

And maybe if it weren't for that _stupid Ontario job,_ maybe if he hadn't been MIA during those crucial months when everyone was deciding who to trust, maybe if he'd argued with her and convinced her to stay with him back in that safe house, then maybe Natasha wouldn't have fallen in with Steve, and maybe they wouldn't have taken this new step beyond friendship, and maybe he could have seriously considered the possibility of her being more than just a friend.

Because he was only just starting to realize what he'd unconsciously felt all along: that if Natasha was going to be with someone, then that person… should be _him._

But Clint had no illusions about their relationship. He knew exactly what it was and what it wasn't; he knew there was nothing he could cite as evidence that Natasha thought of him as anything other than a friend.

Because she didn't. And why should she? Of course it would be Rogers; Rogers had it all. Smart, sensible, good-looking, courteous, dependable. More than that, Rogers was simply a _good person,_ something Clint wasn't sure he could claim of himself.

And who was _he?_ An archer. An idiot. A friend whose messes she seemed to be constantly cleaning up, when he wasn't dragging her into them with him. A man who had never treated her as well as she deserved, and who probably never _could,_ because she was just so incredible and so unique and so extraordinary. A fool who was finally realizing what he should have realized years ago. Simply put, a loser.

And now that he knew all this, now that he had thought it all through, he _couldn't_ tell her. And not just because there was no point now that she was with someone else. Even had she been attainable, he wouldn't have told her the truth.

He just couldn't tell her now that he realized how unworthy he was, and how much she deserved someone else, someone better.

He couldn't tell her. Of that he was certain. There was only one thing he could do now.

He had to get over her.

* * *

 **Probably not the development you were expecting? I think the theme/feel of chapter one is slightly different from the rest of the story; upcoming chapters will resemble this one more closely. Except for chapter three, which somehow turned into a mini action movie.**


	3. Novi Grad

Clint hoisted his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder as he strode down the main hall of SHIELD headquarters. The corridors were swarming with uniformed agents, talking urgently and rushing from station to station. His sharp eyes scanned the hall, searching the crowd for one face.

"Barton!"

He caught sight of her some distance ahead, beckoning to him with a frazzled expression. He hastened to her side and she started down the hall, cutting a straight path through the throng.

Clint fell into step beside her.

"What was so important that it couldn't wait till morning?" he asked, struggling to keep up with her. Clint was a fast walker, but no one walked faster than Maria Hill under stress.

"Short version: we found Loki's scepter," she said tersely, careening around a corner. "We have a quinjet waiting for you in Hangar One; we need you to leave _now."_

Clint frowned. "I thought we were calling in the Avengers on this one. Change of plans?"

"No, we are," Hill replied. "They're in the hangar now. Cap will brief you once you're in the air."

Clint's steps slowed. "They're… _all_ there?"

"Just waiting on Banner," Hill said distractedly. "Once we get a lock on the coordinates, you can leave."

Clint didn't answer. He hadn't seen any of the Avengers since that night in the Tower. The night he found out about Natasha and Rogers. The night that had caused him to reevaluate his relationship with her.

During the five months that followed, he'd thrown himself into his work, determined to get over her. He had needed distance, and SHIELD, still regaining its balance after the rise of HYDRA, had needed him. For months, he had focused on nothing but getting the job done and moving on to the next one.

And it had worked. All it had taken was some distance and some time, and now his feelings for Natasha were gone.

Still, there was a part of him that quailed at the thought of seeing her again. Maybe because it had been so long.

Suddenly he found himself wondering whether she and Rogers were still together.

They had reached the door that led to the hangar and Hill motioned him through, muttering something about checking the status of the coordinates as she headed toward the technology center. Clint hovered outside the door for a moment, then let himself through.

The harshly-lit hangar was a flurry of activity, teeming with busy agents. Skulking in the center of the hangar was a massive, gleaming quinjet, set apart from the other aircrafts by its sleek design. Clint wound his way toward it, anticipation rising as he neared the open hatch.

He saw Natasha right away. She was standing just inside the quinjet with her back to him, hands on hips, deep in conversation with Thor and Rogers. She was in uniform, and Clint noticed that her hair was short and curled again.

He stepped onto the quinjet.

"Barton. Good," Rogers said as he trudged up the ramp.

"Captain," Clint greeted him. He was suddenly very aware of Natasha's gaze on him as he passed.

"New jet?" he asked, moving into the cabin. The interior of the quinjet was similar to standard design with the exception of two sizeable alcoves to the left and right of the cabin: a med bay and a cargo hold.

"This is Stark's work," Thor said, as Clint moved into the cargo hold to load up his gear. "He wanted a craft that would fit in the new facility."

Clint secured his duffel bag and emerged from the cargo hold, glancing into the spacious cockpit. Stark was sitting in the pilot's seat, holding a headset to one ear and fiddling with the controls. "Let's hope it works."

Thor turned back to Rogers, and Clint finally summoned the nerve to look Natasha in the eye. They exchanged a quick smile and a nod; nothing more, nothing less.

Banner wandered onto the jet shortly afterward. Clint couldn't help noticing how out-of-place he looked: while the others were outfitted in full tactical gear, he was dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt with a set of headphones around his neck.

"Dr. Banner. Perfect timing," Stark said, joining them in the cabin. "We got the coordinates. I just logged them into the system, we're good to go."

"We cleared for takeoff?" Rogers asked.

Stark nodded. "All set."

"Then let's go. JARVIS, close the hatch," Rogers said, as the Avengers headed for the seats. The back hatch slowly lifted into place as they strapped in, and seconds later, the aircraft was rising from the ground, leaving the hangar, and zooming off into the still, dark night.

Once they were off the ground, Rogers wasted no time in filling them in on the mission details. Without the bright hangar lights flooding in through the hatch and windshield, the jet was considerably darker, lit only dimly by light from the cockpit. The faces of Clint's teammates were tense and focused in the dull glow as they stood around their captain, awaiting his instructions.

"Loki's scepter was located by a SHIELD team earlier this evening," Rogers was saying. "Hill gave all teams orders to stand down and report to SHIELD when it was found, so they notified HQ right away. As of now, the scepter is being held in a research base in the Sokovian arctic, and it's heavily guarded. If our intel's good, they'll have some kind of an energy shield up around the compound, so we'll need to disable it to get inside.

Rogers turned to Stark. "Still got that blueprint?"

"Yep. JARVIS?"

A holographic image blinked to life before them. Clint could see through the translucent map to the faces across from him, now suffused with blue light.

Rogers pointed at the map. "The base is here, in the woods," he said. "The energy shield should have a radius of at most a couple hundred meters, but we're looking at ground security as far out as two or three miles. If we want to disable that energy shield, we're gonna have to draw them away from the compound. Barton, Romanoff, that's where you come in. As soon as we land, I need you to get out there and turn a few a heads, cause some trouble."

Clint nodded and glanced over at Natasha. She raised her eyebrows at him, eyes sparkling, and he could see how excited she was to be in the field again.

"Once you two draw the action away from the base, the rest of us will come in. We'll keep the fighting on the ground and take out as many HYDRA agents as we can. In the meantime, Stark, you'll need to get working on that shield as soon as you can. Hopefully we can buy you enough time to breach it. Everyone clear?"

"Aye, aye, cap'm," Stark spoke up.

"Good." Rogers looked around the circle at the team. "Now, I know this may not seem like a big one compared to what we've been up against in the past, but this is the biggest bargaining chip HYDRA's got their hands on in a long time, and we have reason to believe they've been using the scepter to conduct experiments on human subjects. It's a powerful piece of alien tech, and unless we do something about it, this bad news is gonna get a whole lot worse. I need everyone operating at a hundred percent out there. Got it?"

They all nodded.

"Okay." Rogers brushed the blueprint away, and its blue light faded. "Let's just hope everything holds together till we get there."

 **.** **.** **.**

The jet touched down in the Sokovian wilderness a few hours later.

"Got your comm units?" Rogers asked, as Clint and Natasha unloaded their gear from the cargo hold.

"All set," Clint replied, strapping two full quivers onto his back. He snapped open his collapsible bow and looked at Natasha. "Ready?"

She smirked at him. "Let's raise some hell."

They moved quickly out the back hatch and headed into the forest.

The air outside was still and icy, and the ground was covered in a thin layer of snow, which crunched under their boots as they hastened toward the compound. Their breath made clouds in the frigid air, and they both kept a sharp lookout, scanning the landscape for signs of movement. By Clint's inner clock, it was still early morning, but he didn't know what time it was in Sokovia, and the pale, overcast sky yielded no clues. Late morning to early afternoon, if he had to guess.

"Status report." Rogers' voice crackled in Clint's ear after a few minutes. "Do you have a visual on ground security?"

"That's negative. Standby," Clint replied.

"Report the second you engage hostiles. We'll need a twenty so we can be on location when you give the signal."

"Copy that," Natasha answered.

She had hardly spoken when the sound of a motor materialized in the distance. They locked eyes, then took off running toward the noise.

A patrol jeep came into view between the trees, and Clint and Natasha simultaneously dropped to the ground behind a dense thicket. The sound of the motor amplified as the jeep rolled nearer, and voices could be heard speaking a foreign language.

"How many," Clint breathed.

Natasha peered around the bushes. "Just two," she replied. "Both in full body armor. Assault rifles; looks like four-sixteens." She looked back at him. "We can take 'em. Let's go." She started to stand up.

"Wait." Clint caught her by the wrist. "Have they made us yet?"

Her brow furrowed. "No. Why?"

"Let's wait," Clint said. "We need to cause a commotion; two stray agents isn't gonna cut it."

She nodded, and he released her wrist and raised a finger to his comm unit. "Hey, Cap. We got eyes on ground security."

"Are you moving in?"

"Negative. We need a bigger target."

"Ten-four. Keep me posted."

The sound of the motor faded into the distance, and they stood and continued on through the woods.

Clint began to understand why Rogers had assigned this part of the job to himself and Natasha. Whereas the others were more accustomed to meeting their enemies head-on, he and Natasha had the most experience with more covert ops that required them to slink around in the shadows. Now that experience was paying off.

New voices drifted toward them of the cold air, and Clint spied movement through the woods ahead of them. He and Natasha slipped behind a pair of thick trees, and their eyes met over the snowy ground.

"Head count?" Natasha said.

Clint craned his neck to look. There was another patrol jeep some fifteen yards away, occupied by two armored guards. A cluster of agents stood nearby, conversing faintly.

"Maybe a couple dozen guards," he estimated. "Two of them in a jeep. More four-sixteens."

"That a big enough target for you?" Natasha asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Clint grinned. "It'll do."

Natasha smirked and darted away. Clint pressed a finger to his comm. "Cap, we got a target. Standby."

"Ten-four. Waiting on your signal."

"Yup," Clint said vacantly, looking up into the tree. He jumped to grab the lowest branch and swung himself up.

The guards were still talking, clearly noticing nothing amiss. Then Natasha's voice rang out:

"Hey fellas, could I get a ride?"

The startled agents' heads whipped toward the noise, and Natasha swung down from an overhanging branch, her boots colliding with the heads of the men in the jeep. They both slumped over as she landed in the vehicle, and the other guards began shouting, charging at her.

Natasha stood her ground, kicking and punching anyone who came near enough. The fighting remained exclusively close-range, hand-to-hand combat; any guard who raised a weapon ended up with an arrow in his skull. More arrows exploded into the ground around them, but the agents were too busy with Natasha to work out where they were coming from. Those at the outskirts of the group were picked off one by one, while Natasha pummeled those in the center.

Over a dozen HYDRA agents lay dead or dying before there was the sound of an engine revving up, and Natasha cranked the jeep around hard, knocking down those within reach. She steered the vehicle away, and as she passed his tree, Clint dropped into the seat beside her.

Gunfire rent the air as the remaining guards finally put their weapons to use, and Clint twisted around, swiftly firing back. As HYDRA was on foot, they were quickly out of range, and the shooting ceased.

Natasha raised a hand to her ear. "Target engaged. We're drawing them away from the compound."

"Copy. We're ready when you need us."

Clint sent an exploding arrow into a tree, hoping to attract attention. "How long do you figure before they realize we're not just out for a joyride?"

Natasha started to reply, but was interrupted by a high-pitched screeching as a beam of blue-white light shot past them. She swore and jerked the wheel, swerving to avoid being hit as more streaks of light sped past, a few blasting into nearby trees, and then two patrol jeeps were bursting into view, flanked on all sides by HYDRA agents. Clint sent arrow after arrow flying into the fray, and Natasha was driving with one hand while shooting with the other. More bolts of light hurtled by, and Clint felt heat when one of them screamed past his head.

"Hey, Cap!" he shouted into the comms. "We could use that backup right around now!"

Natasha swung the jeep around sharply, kicking up muddy snow as more agents closed in. There was a low rumbling in the distance, and Clint looked up to see a full-size army tank lumbering through the trees, emblazoned with HYDRA's symbol.

 _Dammit._

"Cap!"

There was a piercing whine and a flash of light, and one of the jeeps flipped backward through the air, hit by Stark's repulsor. The other jeep was still in pursuit, and its occupant aimed his blaster at them, until Thor leapt into the back, lifted their assailant bodily from his seat, and flung him away before diving into the horde of agents, hammer twirling.

Waves upon waves of armed men were emerging from the woods, guns blazing; one managed to grab the side of their jeep as they passed, and Natasha kicked him off without breaking speed. Stark soared above the ground, shooting snipers out of tall trees, and then Cap's shield was flying, decking multiple agents before ricocheting back to its owner, who brought it down hard over enemy heads. Thor hit an incoming tank with a bolt of lightning and it sailed through the air, only to be caught by the Hulk, who hurled it at an approaching squadron with a roar. Backup had arrived.

For the moment, there was only the heat and exhilaration of the battle, the shrill call of repulsors and enemy blasters, the drill of assault rifles, the growling of motors, the recurring _bang_ of Natasha's gun, the twang of his bowstring, the Hulk's roars, the sound of crashing debris. Clint focused on coordinating his aim with Natasha's driving, shooting explosive arrows, burst shots, pulses, and tasers in quick succession.

"Cap could use some help on the ground," Natasha shouted over the mayhem. "Brace yourself!"

Clint noticed her shift in balance and altered grip on the steering wheel and realized what she was about to do.

"Is this necessary?" he yelled back, setting an arrow to his bowstring.

Natasha grinned wildly at him, eyes blazing with energy.

"Maybe not," she said. "But it'll look badass."

She wrenched the steering wheel, and as the car careened wildly, teetering on two wheels, they jumped.

Clint loosed his arrow before he hit the ground, tucked into a somersault, and came up running. Driverless, the jeep spun crazily through the snow as a group of agents converged on Clint and he got to work.

He began to form a pattern: draw, fire, draw, fire, duck another blast, pound another guard over the head with his bow. He used a combination of shooting and martial arts, punching and kicking those who came near and following it up with a taser arrow. Snow crunched under his boots, the icy breeze nipped at his skin, and the sharp scent of gunsmoke hung in the air.

"Shit!" Stark yelled over the comms. "Think I just found that energy shield."

"Can you disarm it?" Rogers asked.

"Yep, 'm working on it."

Clint sent another arrow through the heads of two agents and took out an approaching guard with a deft sweep of his bow. To his left, he could see Natasha battling six agents at once, and to his right, Cap swung his shield at two guards, then raised it to block a blue-white flash.

"The hell are they shooting at up, anyway?" Rogers asked over the comms.

"Low-level energy blasts," Stark replied. "They've got power cells in their tanks, their blasters… and apparently a few bunkers."

"How 'low-level' are we talking?"

"Well, I wouldn't try high-fiving one," Stark said. "This stuff is definitely alien, it's just like what those Loki-bots were using in New York."

"Then Loki's scepter _must_ be here! HYDRA couldn't mount this defense without it!" Thor said over the comms. "At long last."

"'At long last' is lasting a little long, boys," Natasha commented.

Rogers seemed to agree. "Stark, what's the status on that shield?"

"Still working on it, keep your pants on."

A group of a dozen guards was running toward Clint, and he charged at them, and suddenly a bunker was firing at him, and it was a warzone. He ducked the blast and took out four of the guards as he approached, and then he was in the midst of them, using his bow to knock weapons out of hands. One, two, three fell back with arrows in their foreheads, and he dodged a stream of bullets. Two he flattened with a swing of his bow, one fell, convulsing, the victim of a taser arrow. One tried to sneak up from behind, but Clint performed a judo shoulder-throw; another he started to take out with another standard arrow, but he chose the wrong tip by mistake and the man exploded, and—

Clint halted, looking swiftly to the left and right. Had he forgotten something? There had been twelve agents, and he had taken out twelve. So why did it feel like he was missing something, like there was something important he'd failed to account for?

And then it hit him.

 _Dammit._ The bunker—

And then pain exploded in his side, and he was on the ground, and he couldn't breathe; his wound was blazing, throbbing, and his vision swam hazily…

Suddenly Natasha was there, bending over him; her hair falling into her face, her expression intense. She was shouting, but he couldn't hear her. He saw her reach into her utility belt and putt out a pack of gauze, and when she pressed it to his side, he caught fire, and he arched his back, writhing in agony. He could almost feel the flames licking at him; so strong was the impression of being ablaze that he lifted his head, trying to discern whether he was actually on fire or merely in pain.

Natasha pushed his head back and turned it over, exposing the side of his neck. Her hand was pressing into his jaw, holding him there as she wiped his neck with something wet and cold, and he registered vaguely that she was holding a syringe between her teeth. Another wave of pain swept over him, and he closed his eyes.

He was drifting in and out of consciousness. He could hear gunfire, and people shouting, and his wound was pulsing. He saw Natasha's face, heard Rogers' voice, and then he was floating again, knowing nothing but heat and pain and darkness…

Far away, someone was talking. The pain in his side had calmed to a dull ache, and the gunfire had ceased. He was numb and lethargic, and he struggled to focus on the voice, trying to overcome his drowsiness.

It was Natasha, he realized, and she wasn't as far away as he'd thought.

"...so just make sure it's ready, okay?" she was saying. There was a pause, and no one answered. "Look, I'll explain everything later. For now, just do what I'm asking." Another pause.

"Dammit, you're not listening, are you?" she snapped, and he flinched. "Pay attention to what I'm saying."

Clint forced his eyes open. He was in a small, featureless room, lying shirtless on some sort of raised cot or gurney. His vision was still blurred and hazy, but he was aware of Natasha standing beside him, bending over him. He couldn't focus on her completely; just saw that she was there, and that she was tilting her head over on its side, looking at him.

"Are you listening now?" Natasha asked.

Clint struggled to speak.

"Good," Natasha said. "I'm gonna start over. Barton was injured in the field. I'm gonna need you to prep an OR, and have your team ready for him."

Everything felt so strange and surreal, and Clint began to wonder whether he'd woken up at all. He tried to look at Natasha's face again, and gradually her features came into focus. She was frowning, lips pursed, and she wasn't quite looking at his face, but rather at his chest. No – at his injury. Her hair swung a little, and he felt pressure on his side.

Clint found his voice.

"Tasha," he said uncertainly.

Her eyes flicked to his face, then back to her task.

"No, it doesn't matter," she said. "Just make sure Dr. Cho's there. We're gonna need the full treatment."

At last, Clint noticed the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, and he understood.

He lay still for a moment as she talked, examining his surroundings, trying to figure out where he was. His side was still pulsing, and he stirred, testing the mobility and stiffness of his limbs.

"Like I said, we don't know yet, just hold still," Natasha was saying. "Call Stark, he can tell you more. I told you to hold still. I'm talking to you, Clint."

Clint froze. Natasha didn't look up from her work.

"I know, but there's nothing I can do about that," she said. "Just be prepared for anything. And call Stark. He can help." She frowned, and muttered, "He's holding his breath," and then, "You're allowed to breathe, Barton, just don't move."

Clint released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Natasha, still focused on his wound, tossed her hair back and switched the phone to her other ear.

"No, I just administered first aid. Yes; morphine. I know. I'm changing the gauze now."

Clint, having nothing to do except hold as still as humanly possible for her, watched her quietly. Her brow was still creased with concentration, and when she pulled her mouth to the side, a dimple showed in her cheek. A few curls fell forward again, and maybe it was just the painkillers, or the way the light was hitting her eyes, but Clint found himself thinking how pretty she looked.

After a moment, she pressed one hand to his side and straightened, taking hold of the phone.

"I'm gonna have to let you go," she said. "Just call Tony, okay? And get that OR set up. Thanks." She hung up.

Clint waited while she gathered a pile of bloody gauze and took it to the far side of the room, out of view. He could hear water running nearby, until she reappeared, drying her hands on a towel. Her eyes slid to his face, and her expression softened.

"You scared the hell out of us, Barton," she said, pulling up a chair. "It's a damn good thing we have this med bay now, or I don't know what we would've done."

 _Med bay._ "We're on the quinjet," he realized, scanning the small room.

She nodded, watching him closely. "Do you remember what happened?" she asked at length.

"Yeah, yeah, the bunker." Clint closed his eyes. "God, I screwed up. At least no one got hurt."

A moment passed, and he looked at Natasha again. "So did we win?"

She smirked. "We won," she replied. "We pretty much finished off ground security, and Tony got the energy field down. He and Thor stayed behind to raid the base, and they found the scepter. Hill's sending back another jet for them." She paused, eyeing him critically, then abruptly reached forward and placed her palm on his forehead.

Clint froze.

Natasha's eyes slid to his face. "How do you feel?"

"Um…" He closed his eyes again, trying to focus on something other than her hand. "A little woozy," he said finally. "Side still hurts like a bitch, but the drugs are helping…"

She ran her fingers through his hair, and suddenly he lost his train of thought.

"Just hang in there till we get back to New York," she said calmly. "There's a team waiting at the Tower; they'll operate as soon as we get there."

It took Clint a moment to register what she had said.

Then his eyes flew open. "Wait. The Tower?"

She nodded.

Clint was quiet for a moment, apprehension rising. If he was operated on in the Tower, he would undoubtedly be sent to the medical wing there afterward until he recovered. Natasha was living in the Tower. And, much as he might want to, he knew he shouldn't live under the same roof as her for an extended period of time. Not after he'd come so far.

Besides, he wasn't sure he belonged in Avengers Tower anymore.

"I thought we were going back to SHIELD," he said finally.

"Avengers HQ is in the Tower now," she replied.

"I don't want to go to the Tower," he blurted out.

She frowned. "Why not?"

"I just—" He squirmed. "I just don't."

Natasha merely looked at him, brow furrowed.

Then she stood and walked across the room.

The med bay was divided from the cabin by a sliding glass door. Natasha pulled it shut and stood there a moment with her back to him. Then she turned and crossed the room again, this time sitting on the gurney next to him.

"Barton, why don't you tell me what's going on."

Clint swallowed. "Nothing, I just—"

"Something's been off for a while now," she continued, watching him seriously. "You wouldn't tell me last time. Tell me now."

Clint stared at her, speechless. He couldn't tell her the truth, couldn't tell her that he didn't want to go back with her because he was afraid of falling in love with her again…

But that wasn't really the truth, was it? he realized suddenly. He gazed up at Natasha with her brilliant red curls and steady, determined eyes, and he knew. He wasn't afraid of falling in love. He was afraid of falling in deeper.

Because he'd never really gotten over Natasha Romanoff, had he? No matter how many times he told himself he had, no matter how much he distanced himself. His feelings persisted. Maybe they always would. And he was just now realizing that he had about as good a chance of overcoming his need for Natasha as he had of overcoming his need for oxygen.

"Clint."

He met her searching gaze, and suddenly he wanted to tell her. If only because he'd seen nothing today that suggested she was still with Rogers. If only because he had trouble saying no when she looked at him like that.

But Natasha deserved better than him. He realized that now. And he knew she didn't return his feelings anyway, so what would be the point of telling her?

But she was still watching him stubbornly, and didn't look like she would take no for an answer. So he decided to tell her the other part: the truth that he had finally arrived at, and had made his peace with.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Nat…" he began slowly. "Nothing's been the same since DC, y'know? I mean, I've been a part of SHIELD my whole life. I guess I've always kind of… defined myself by SHIELD, and its values. And then all the sudden, I didn't know what SHIELD was anymore. Didn't know who _I_ was anymore." He looked up at her hesitantly. She was frowning, studying him, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

Clint swallowed.

"So I started working," he said. "That's all I've been doing since January. I thought I could find myself in my work. And I did." He met her eyes, searching her face, needing her to understand.

"Nat, I'm an agent of SHIELD," he said. "It's who I am. And I'm still figuring out exactly what that means, but… it's what I've always been. All I know how to be." He paused and looked away. "Besides… I think SHIELD needs me more than the Avengers do, anyway."

A heartbeat passed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Natasha asked.

Clint exhaled. "Just that… SHIELD's still recovering, y'know?" he said. "They really need people like me right now. People they know they can trust." He shrugged. "The Avengers, well… they can function without me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Natasha said sharply.

Clint looked at her, eyebrows raised. "What, so you're gonna stand there and tell me you guys just couldn't've done it today if I wasn't there?"

Natasha frowned. "Clint. Don't do this."

"No, you're not gonna do that, 'cause you know I'm right," Clint answered for her. He looked down at his bandaged side. "If anything, I just caused more trouble for you."

"What, so you're saying you're useless?"

"No," Clint said quietly. "I'm saying I'm… unnecessary."

Natasha stood up and moved away a few paces. Then she turned to face him.

"If you really believe that, then why'd you come today?"

"Nat." Clint closed his eyes again. "You're missing the point. If you ask for my help, I'm not gonna say no. What I'm saying is… I just don't feel like I'm doing much here." He looked up at her. "I'm not an Avenger," he said. "I'm just not."

Natasha looked at him but didn't respond. This bothered him a little – not because he _wanted_ her to argue with him. What he was telling her didn't upset him anymore; he was stating fact, not looking for sympathy. But the fact that she wasn't arguing with him still saddened him, simply because he knew that, once upon a time, Natasha would _never_ have let him say these things about himself, no matter how true they might be. They were drifting apart. And she didn't even realize it.

At last Natasha sighed.

"I'll see if I can reroute us," she said. "But if I can't transfer the medical team to SHIELD, then there's nothing I can do." She started for the door.

"Thank you," Clint said quietly.

Natasha paused in the doorway and turned, her eyes fastening on him. "For the record… I think you're wrong," she said. "I just don't know how to persuade you."

She left the room.

Clint closed his eyes. What he hadn't told her was the other reason he no longer fit in with the Avengers. Now that Natasha was never around anymore, he had lost the one thing that had connected him to the others. He liked and respected the Avengers, but he'd hardly seen them since New York, and if he were honest with himself, he barely knew any of them. Except for Natasha. Back when they were inseparable, she had been what bonded him to the Avengers, made him feel he belonged. But now he never saw her anymore, barely knew where they stood. Now he couldn't figure out where he fit into the team.

"How's he doing?" Clint heard Rogers' voice floating in from the cabin.

"He's gonna be fine. Thanks to you," Natasha said. "If you hadn't moved him to the med bay so fast, he'd be a treasured memory."

This was all she said, but somehow, simply from her tone and delivery, Clint knew. They were still together.

Their voices faded as they moved into the cockpit, and Clint lay there quietly, waiting for Natasha to come back. Not for any reason in particular; just because he wanted her to sit with him, the way both of them used to do when they other was in medical. After she confirmed their route with Rogers, he figured, she'd come back.

But she didn't.

* * *

 **You may recognize this as the opening fight scene from AOU... slightly modified. Spoiler alert: in this version, Tony does not in fact use the scepter to create a murder-bot. :)**


	4. Manhattan

Sokovia had been Clint's last op with the Avengers.

He'd returned to his job as a field agent, doing recon, surveillance, infiltration, whatever SHIELD assigned him. He'd fallen back into his old patterns of life as an intelligence operative: briefings and debriefings, last-minute plane trips, sparring and target practice, filing mission reports. He liked the stability in the routine of this life, but it did have the tendency to become depressing. When his life was so monotonous, it could begin to feel empty. Purposeless.

The way it had felt before she was in it.

He never saw her anymore. He never saw any of them anymore, and he preferred it that way. He had long since given up trying to get over her, but he saw no reason to torment himself by spending time with her. And really, he did his best not to think about her anymore either.

This had been all but impossible at first, but over time, he'd so good at it that he'd barely spared her a thought in weeks the day Stark had called.

Nearly two years had passed since Sokovia the day this had happened. Invitations to Stark's parties regularly popped up on his phone, but he'd never accepted any of them, and Stark had never called him personally.

So he'd been surprised when he'd answered his phone and had found himself talking to the man himself.

"Hey, Barton. Ignored my latest Evite yet?" Stark had said.

"Uh… yeah, I think I got it."

"And let me guess, you're super busy with work right now and you just don't think you can make this one, am I right?"

Clint had mumbled something vague about an upcoming op.

"Yep, that's what I figured," Stark had said. "Guess I'll break the news to Romanoff."

Stark must have guessed that that would get his attention, even if he couldn't have guessed why.

"What?" Clint had said, suddenly alert.

"Yeah, we were just talking yesterday, she was asking if you were gonna be at this one. Sounded like she really wanted you to be there."

Clint hadn't responded right away. He'd been thinking, wondering why she wanted to see him at this party in particular. Wondering what had made it different from all the other parties he'd skipped.

Wondering what it would be like to see her again.

Was he actually considering this?

Stark had been waiting, obviously expecting an answer of some kind, so he'd said slowly, "Well… I'll have to look at my work schedule—"

"Perfect," Stark had cut in. "See you Friday."

And he'd hung up.

And that was how, on Friday night, Clint had found himself driving to a party at Avengers Tower.

When he'd stepped off the elevator, he'd seen her almost immediately. She'd been moving across the room a ways ahead, chatting with a friend, and even just that quick glimpse of her through the crowd had been enough to make a thrill roll through him. He'd been struck by how happy she looked. It wasn't that she'd ever been a particularly unhappy person, but when she was happy, it wasn't always obvious. It was obvious tonight.

He'd only seen her for an instant, and she hadn't noticed him. After that, he'd stood alone by the wall for a time, unsure what to do next and already beginning to question why he'd come tonight. Then Banner had approached him, had tried to make conversation, and while he'd appreciated the gesture, he hadn't known what to say. He'd never been especially good at socializing in the first place; now he was crap. The conversation had been awkward and filled with gaps, until he'd finally come up with an excuse to walk away.

And then, at last, he'd spied Richard Alph and Melinda May sitting at a table in the corner, and he'd headed over immediately, relieved to find someone who wouldn't expect him to make small talk. They'd accepted him at their table with a murmured word of greeting and an offer of beer, and now he was sitting here, rehashing old missions with them over drinks. The dimly-lit corner their table was situated in distanced them somewhat from the general chatter in the room, and they stayed there awhile, talking comfortably, none of them minding the thoughtful silences that slipped in now and then.

"So anyway. Siberia," Alph was saying, lounging back in his chair. "Dead of winter, two goddamn feet of snow. I'm there with a team of maybe a dozen men, and we're just now realizing SHIELD forgot to mention our target's an enhanced."

Clint let out a low whistle, and May shook her head.

"We ended up wallowing around like pigs in that gunk for over an hour, looking for the target. Then finally one of my men looks up and realizes the guy's been flying behind us the whole time." Alph gave them a disgusted look. "You heard right. _Flying."_

Clint chuckled and took a swallow of beer.

"Was he on the register?" May asked.

"Oh yeah, they had a profile on 'im and everything," Alph said, folding his hands behind his head. "Just forgot to bleedin' mention he was the one we were after, is all."

"So was this before or after San Francisco?" May asked.

Alph snorted. "After, thank God," he said. "Barton, I don't know what I've told you about San Francisco, but all you gotta know is, don't ever get yourself in a shootout in a tunnel. The bullets don't stop when they hit the wall, just change direction. They _bounce."_

Clint shook his head. "Son of a bitch."

Alph took a long drag at his beer, and Clint suddenly caught himself craning his neck to look around the room. He stopped himself. If she'd wanted him here tonight for a particular reason, she would find him.

His eye was caught instead by a group of young partygoers across the room. One was entertaining the others with a story, and they were all laughing uproariously, the sound carrying to his ears.

It struck him suddenly that, not so long ago, _he_ would've been a part of that group. The group that looked like it had come to the party, with the actual intent of partying. Instead, he was sitting in a dark corner, dressed in the jeans and leather jacket he wore to work, talking to his co-workers about their job. Times had changed.

Alph had opened a pack of Camels and was lighting up. "Have a smoke?" he offered, pulling another from the box.

May shook her head, but Clint shrugged.

"Might as well."

He stuck the proffered cigarette between his lips, and Alph flicked his lighter under it until the flame caught. Smoke spiralled up to the ceiling, hanging in the dull lamplight.

"Hey, wasn't it Siberia where you and Coulson got snowed in for like a week?" Alph asked May at length.

"Sochi," she corrected. "And it wasn't a week. We were stuck there with nothing to do for a month."

"Nothing to do but each other," Alph said, grinning.

May just looked at him, unamused.

"What? You totally banged, didn't you?"

"Classified," May said, deadpan.

Alph laughed. "Damn, I think I've still got money ridin' on that one," he said. "If you ever come clean, I'm gonna be a rich, rich man. Barton, too."

May gave Clint a withering look. He smiled and shrugged.

"How 'bout you, Barton?" Alph asked finally. "You've probably seen hell in Russia, the number of times you used to go down there."

Clint thought for a minute, taking long, slow pulls at his cigarette. Only after he'd considered and discarded a few ideas did he realize he was subconsciously looking for a solo mission, rather than a Delta team job. He didn't want to subject himself to the kind of teasing May had gotten. Especially now.

"Well, there was this one time. I was in Minsk." He took another drag at his cigarette. "'S doing infiltration. They told me I was gonna be undercover for a month. I was under for three."

"Damn." Alph shook his head.

"Isn't easy, y'know. Undercover work," Clint said. "'Specially when exfil's overdue. You gotta keep playing pretend, lying to everybody around you, wondering all the time what the hell's taking so long."

Alph grunted in agreement.

Clint shrugged. "Guess our job's never really easy though," he mused. "They never said it would be. And it's down to us to try and cope."

Alph nodded. May looked thoughtful.

A few minutes passed in pensive silence. At last Clint stirred. His cigarette had burned down, and he put out the remaining stub in the ashtray on the table.

"Gonna get another beer," he grunted, getting to his feet.

This was pretty classy, for a Stark party, he reflected as he weaved his way slowly across the room. No loud, thumping music, no scantily-dressed girls. Just a bunch of people drinking and hanging out on a Friday night.

The mini-bar was located by a floor-to-ceiling window, through which could be seen the scattered lights of the city below. Clint took a beer and popped the cap off to take a long swallow. He stood there a moment, looking out at the distant ground, then turned and slouched back toward his table.

He was midway across the room when he felt a hand on his arm, and he turned, and it was Natasha.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and for a second he felt actually dizzy. Her eyes crinkled into little crescent-moons as she smiled up at him, and one side of his mouth slid up in a stupid half-grin before he could stop it.

"So it _is_ you," she said as her hand slipped off his arm. "I didn't think you were coming tonight."

He'd forgotten how bright her eyes were, how endearingly hoarse her voice was, and he realized he was standing closer to her than he had stood for almost two years.

Finally he found his voice.

"Well... I did," he said lamely, shuffling his feet. There was a soft smile at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and she tilted her head, searching his face fondly.

"I'm glad you did," she said; and suddenly it was all too much – her voice, her proximity, the way she was smiling at him, and it was making him feel things he hadn't felt in a long time, and he couldn't meet her brilliant green eyes anymore and he dropped his gaze, looking at her shoulder instead.

He noticed then that she had grown her hair out, that it curled down past her shoulders now, and suddenly he wished he had made more of an effort. He hadn't imagined that, when he saw her again, it would be in his work clothes, with too much stubble on his face and neck, smelling of beer and cigarette smoke. He hunched his shoulders self-consciously.

"How have you been?" she was saying.

"Good," he replied, a little too defensively. After a moment, he added, "You?"

"Pretty well, actually," she said. "Are you still at SHIELD?"

He nodded, still looking at her shoulder.

"They working you hard?"

He shrugged. "No more so than usual," he said.

A moment passed, and Natasha shifted. "Well, I gotta track down Steve," she said. She squeezed his shoulder. "I'm glad I ran into you. I'll see you later."

And she was gone.

Clint stood there a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he headed toward his table.

He found himself reflecting on how good it had been to see her again. For awhile now, his method had been to avoid her, to spare himself the pain of wanting to be with her and knowing he couldn't. And it was working. But now it had been so long since he'd talked just to her, just spent time in her presence. Of course, distancing himself was the whole point, because being with her still hurt. Yet he found that he missed it. Missed her.

And, going by their conversation, she hadn't wanted him here tonight for any particular reason after all. Maybe she had missed him, too.

"We were just talking about Kyrgyzstan. That little Black Market business we broke up," May said as he sat down. "Alph thinks you weren't along on that one. You were there, right?"

Clint paused, his brain working sluggishly as he tried to shift his attention to the question.

"The time with the drug cartel?" he asked finally.

"The other one," May said. "The time evac had to be rerouted and we almost didn't make the rendezvous point."

Clint frowned, trying to think. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"He wasn't there," Alph said, lighting another cigarette.

May scowled, looking confused. Then her face cleared. "No, you know what I'm thinking of? _Kazakhstan._ The Chuya Alps?"

Clint nodded, his mouth twitching. "Now _that_ I remember."

"Alph, have you heard this one?"

"Don't think so."

"Barton, tell it," May said, looking amused.

Clint smiled. Back in the day, this had been one of his favorite mission stories to tell at parties. He hadn't told it in awhile though, and for a second, he hesitated, worried that thinking about the way things had been so long ago would be painful. But as the details of the op flooded back to him, he found himself starting to chuckle, and suddenly, he wanted to tell it.

"So this happened right after, uh, Romanoff got off probation," he began. "We're talking months, maybe weeks. There was some group in Kazakhstan SHIELD wanted out of the picture, and Coulson decided to pair us up with May and this recruit she was S.O.-ing. I don't even think he works here anymore, think he was a washout, but his name was Tills.

"You remember how the recruits—well, _everybody,_ really, but especially the recruits were just terrified of Romanoff when she was first approved? Yeah, that was Tills. Poor kid was pissing himself the whole ride out. I'm sure he'd heard stories, probably all true, and he wouldn't go within twenty feet of her. 'Course, she didn't give a damn, and May and I just thought it was funny."

Clint lounged back in his seat, starting to enjoy himself.

"So we finally get there. We find the group's hideout up in this mountain range, and it turns into a shootout. I don't know exactly how it happened, but it was snowing and the rocks were pretty slick, and Tills lost his balance and slid down the mountain a ways."

Alph's eyebrows went up.

"Me and May had our hands full with the shooters, but Romanoff had a window, so she shinned down there and pulled him out. Saved his life."

Clint took a sip of beer. "So on the ride back, Tills is a changed man. Wouldn't shut up about the op, how crazy it was, how much fun he had, whatever. And then at one point he turns to Romanoff, and he goes, 'You know, when I saw you coming toward me on that mountain, for a minute I thought you were gonna push me.' And you know what she said?" Clint's smile broadened. May was smirking across the table.

"She looks at him, real serious, and she goes, 'That's absurd. I wouldn't do that to you. Not when I knew Barton was watching.'"

Alph laughed loudly, slapping his knee. Clint chuckled and raised his beer to his lips. "He shut up after that," he said, and took a swig.

"Romanoff was always a laugh. Still is," May commented. "Wouldn't guess it by looking at her."

Clint nodded in agreement. Then Alph turned to him, one eyebrow raised suggestively, and Clint stiffened, sensing he was about to get a question he didn't want to answer.

But at that moment, a hush started to fall over the room, and Rogers' voice could be heard addressing the crowd.

"Thank you," he was saying. "I just have a quick announcement I'd like to make."

Clint turned in his chair. Rogers was standing in the center of the room, and he had his arm around Natasha. Suddenly Clint's stomach dropped, and he wasn't sure why.

"I think a lot of you have noticed that, uh… this party isn't really Tony's style."

This earned an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.

"Well, that's because this isn't really Tony's party," Rogers said. "I just asked him to host it, 'cause he has the greatest venue in New York." He smiled down at Natasha, and she smirked at him. "Nat and I organized this party," he said. "And we asked Tony to invite all of you, because we wanted to tell you all that, well…" He looked around the room, a nervous but excited smile on his face. "Nat and I are getting married."

Immediately a delighted murmur ran through the crowd, and then the room erupted in cheers. Clint just sat there, stunned. Then Rogers bent his head to kiss Natasha, and Clint turned away.

May and Alph were still sipping their beer, looking pleased but not overly enthusiastic, and Clint was glad he was with a group he wouldn't have to fake a reaction around. He merely tried to look pleasant, tried not to show the disappointment he was feeling even as it weighed on his chest.

So they were going to get married. Perhaps this shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did, but he was just now realizing that in the back of his mind, he'd always assumed— _hoped,_ really—that their relationship wouldn't last. Largely because he'd never really thought of her as the type to consider settling down. He realized, with a pang, that she'd just needed to find the right person.

And then suddenly guilt was tugging at him, because he had no right to be disappointed. Even had Rogers _not_ been that person, he was delusional if he thought for a second that _he_ could be instead. He couldn't. And this wasn't about him anyway; this train of thought was utterly selfish. Tonight was about _them,_ and he owed it to them to at least try to be happy for them for one night, even if he never could be again.

So he took a gulp of beer and stood up, pasting on a weak smile.

"Guess I better congratulate the happy couple."

Everyone else seemed to have had the same idea; Rogers and Natasha were being swarmed with well-wishers when Clint headed over. He hung back a moment as they received kisses and hugs and warm handshakes, and as soon as he saw an opening, he approached.

"Hey, congratulations," he said, forcing another smile as he paused in front of them.

"Thanks, Barton," Rogers said with a nod and a smile. Clint ventured a swift glance at Natasha, and saw that she was grinning.

Clint hesitated, feeling he should say something else. "So when's the big day?" he asked finally.

"March sixteenth," Natasha said happily.

Clint raised his eyebrows. "Pretty soon, then."

"Yeah, we were gonna wait til summer, give ourselves more time to prepare, but Nat wanted a spring wedding and we thought, why wait?" Rogers looked at Natasha and they shared a little smile, and suddenly Clint wanted to leave.

"Well… take care of her Rogers," he said, shifting away.

Rogers chuckled. "I don't think she needs it."

Clint tried to laugh. "Yeah, well," he said. "Take care of her anyway."

He turned to leave.

"Barton, wait."

He halted at the sound of her voice and turned to face her.

She nudged Rogers, and he looked down at her. "What?"

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward Clint.

"What is it?"

She gave him a meaningful look. "You were going to ask him about…" She trailed off pointedly.

"About…? Oh!" Rogers grinned sheepishly and turned to Clint. "Look, Barton, I was actually hoping I'd see you here tonight, because we never really see you anymore and I wanted to ask in person if you'd be one of my groomsmen."

Clint froze, his heart sinking. He couldn't do that. He couldn't. He was having enough trouble with just the _idea_ of their getting married; to actually _be_ there… to be a _part_ of it…

But he could feel Natasha watching him eagerly, hopefully, and he couldn't disappoint her either, couldn't say no.

So he shoved his hands into his pockets, summoned a smile, and said, "'Course I will."

Rogers may have thanked him, but he wasn't listening because suddenly she was right there, beaming up at him and murmuring " _Thank you",_ and she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. Clint went rigid, trying frantically to remember what you did with your hands when you were hugged, but before he had time to even take them out of his pockets she had pulled away, leaving a hint of perfume on the air. It was a mindless gesture, over before it had begun, and now she was standing with Rogers again, thanking Banner and giving him a hug, too. Clint stood back a little, hovering uncertainly.

"Well," he said aloud. "I guess… I'll go now."

No one heard him. And no one tried to stop him as he headed for the elevators.

* * *

 **Only one chapter left! It's hilarious to me how much my chapter lengths vary in this one. Oddly enough, this was actually one of my favorite chapters to write. Maybe I'm sadistic, I don't know.**


	5. Brooklyn

Clint paused in the doorway of Hill's office. Hill was sitting at her desk, fingers flying across the keyboard, and she didn't look up from her computer.

Abruptly Clint pivoted and strode away from the door. Half a dozen paces later, his steps slowed, and he turned and trudged back to the office.

On the threshold, he hesitated.

Without looking up, Hill said, "Barton, I swear to god, make up your mind, you're gonna give me a seizure."

Slowly, Clint entered the office. He lowered himself into the chair across from the desk.

A minute ticked by, marked by the clicking of the keyboard.

Hill glanced up. "What's going on?"

Clint crossed his ankle over his knee, bouncing his leg. "I want a job," he blurted out. And then, "I need a job."

Hill resumed her typing. "Standard procedure is for the _handler_ to approach the _agent_ with an op, not the other way around.—"

"Yeah, I know the protocol," Clint said.

Hill looked at him across the desk and narrowed her eyes.

Clint waited quietly, holding her gaze. Hill didn't often make exceptions for people, but he figured there was at least a chance she'd make one for him.

At last, Hill sighed. "What kind of job?" she asked, her hand moving to the computer mouse.

"A long one."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Recon, infiltration…?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he said. "As long as it lasts through March."

Hill yanked open her top drawer. "Let me write this down." She slapped down a sheet of paper and clicked open a pen. Her hand moved quickly across the page, and she muttered, "Barton… acting… headstrong… again. Wants job—no, _long_ job… parameters undefined… lasting… through… March; I assume you'll want to work around the sixteenth," she said, still scribbling.

Clint squirmed.

"No."

Hill paused. "What?"

Clint dropped his gaze. "Don't plan around the sixteenth."

He felt her look at him. "Barton, the sixteenth is Romanoff's wedding."

Clint winced. "I know what the sixteenth is."

A moment passed.

"Barton…" Hill began. Then she stopped. Clint didn't know how much she understood, or thought she understood, but he didn't look up.

Finally, Hill sighed. "Fine. I'll keep my eyes open."

"Thank you," Clint said quietly. He stood and headed for the door.

"Barton?"

He stopped.

"For the record, I think you're making a mistake."

"Noted," Clint said.

And he left the office.

 **.** **.** **.**

Clint knocked on the door of Natasha's apartment.

He heard movement from within, and he tensed, gripping the strap of his duffel bag. The door opened, and he found himself face-to-face with Steve Rogers.

Clint froze.

Rogers leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. "Barton, hi. What can I do for you?"

"Is Natasha here?" Clint asked awkwardly.

"Yeah, she's here," Rogers said, passing a hand through his hair.

"I wanna talk to her," Clint said. And then, pointedly, "In private."

Rogers looked thoughtfully at Clint for a minute. Then he nodded and straightened up. "Okay," he said, stepping past and starting down the hall. "I'll take myself for a walk."

Clint paused for a moment, then reluctantly entered the apartment.

He stepped into the kitchen and closed the door.

"Steven?" Her voice floated in from the living room. "Who was at the door?"

Hesitantly, Clint moved around the corner and into the living room. "Me, actually."

Natasha looked up from her spot on the floor, and her face broke into a bright smile, making his chest constrict. "Barton! Hey," she said, getting to her feet.

Clint smiled a little and dropped his gaze as she picked her way through the wedding invitations that were strewn across the carpet. He'd hoped that seeing her again in casual clothes would put him more at ease than he had been at the party, but he found that, as always, she was no less riveting in jeans and a tank top.

"What are you doing here?" she asked breezily, stopping in front of him. Her green eyes were fixed curiously on him, and he swallowed.

"I've been assigned," he said abruptly. "I… guess there's this target SHIELD's been keeping tabs on, and they're just cycling through different surveillance teams. So it's my turn now."

She was studying him, doubtless trying to figure out why he was telling her this. He hunched his shoulders but managed to hold her gaze.

"Where?" she asked finally.

"Um. Copenhagen."

She raised her eyebrows. "Copenhagen? As in, Denmark?"

He bobbed his head. "Yeah."

"Okay…" she said slowly, still watching him. "So, when do you leave?"

"Uh, right now, actually," he said, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag. "There's a taxi waiting outside, so… I guess this is goodbye."

Suddenly she frowned. "Wait. You'll be back in time for the wedding, right?"

"Um…" Clint's gaze dropped to the floor. "Well, it's a pretty long-term job, so…" He trailed off weakly. "I guess not," he finished.

"Hang on, what?" she said sharply, and he winced. "You guess not? Barton, we need to talk to Hill about this, she'll assign someone else."

"She… can't," Clint said, still not looking up. "I've already been briefed. They already recalled the last team from Denmark and got evac lined up, too."

"What, so that's it?" Natasha snapped. "You're just leaving? Just like that?"

Clint stared at the floor, pushing his hands into his pockets.

"Okay. Okay." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Barton, listen to me." She stepped closer, speaking earnestly. "Look, if you don't want to be a groomsman, if you're—I don't know, if you're nervous about standing up in front of everyone, it's okay. You don't have to be in the wedding party. Steve will understand." She exhaled slowly. "Just—please be at my wedding," she said softly. "I want you to be there. You're my best friend."

Clint smiled wryly. He wasn't sure why she still called him that, when they both knew it wasn't true anymore. Maybe it was out of habit. Maybe it was comforting to say. But no; she was going to marry her best friend, which, he supposed, was as it should be.

"I can't," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Natasha huffed and spun around, stalking away a few paces. She turned, and Clint could feel her glaring at him.

"You're a jerk," she spat.

"I know," Clint murmured, and for an instant, he truly regretted what he'd done. He hadn't expected her to be this upset; perhaps she cared more than he'd let himself believe. But he'd been telling the truth when he'd said it was too late to back out. And even if he could've, he still wasn't sure he would've. Leaving hurt, but staying would hurt more.

At last Clint stirred.

"Well…" he said slowly. "I guess—I should go now."

He turned and started for the door.

"Barton…"

He faced her uncertainly.

She watched him for a moment, then sighed and crossed to where he stood.

"Look," she said quietly, as he stared at her shoulder. "I'm pissed. You know that. But if this is really goodbye, if I really won't see you again for Lord knows how long…" She paused and tilted her head. "Then let's end on a good note. Okay?"

Clint nodded.

He stuck out his hand. She looked at it for a minute, then stepped forward and hugged him around the neck.

For a second, Clint froze up.

Then he let himself relax and hug her back, wrapping his arms around her, breathing her in. She buried her face in his shoulder and exhaled, her hand stroking the nape of his neck.

After a moment, she lifted her head and placed a lingering kiss on his cheek. He closed his eyes, and guilt rolled through him. He didn't deserve this. He had let her down, and she was too forgiving. Too sweet.

"Natasha."

She drew back and looked at him. He still couldn't meet her eyes.

"I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," she said gently. His jacket was unzipped a few inches, and she pulled up the slider, smoothing his collar down. "Be safe in Denmark, okay?"

He nodded.

"And—Clint, look at me."

Hesitantly, he met her green eyes. She was gazing seriously at him, and he forgot to breathe for a second.

"Take care of yourself," she murmured, studying his face. "I mean that."

He nodded again and managed a smile, but emotion was rising in his throat and he couldn't speak.

Instead, disregarding his qualms, he kissed her on the forehead.

She was smiling softly when he pulled away. She looked thoughtfully at him, then stepped back slowly, her hands dropping off his shoulders.

"Goodbye, Clint," she said quietly.

 _Goodbye, Tasha._

He turned and left the apartment.

* * *

 **Am I a monster for posting this? :P Basically I wanted to explore the idea of Clint falling in love with Nat and realizing she loved someone else—how he would react, how it would affect him. Although there is established Romanogers, this is very much a Clintasha fic, and I have listed it as such. Romanogers shippers would likely be dissatisfied with it as Clintasha is portrayed as the more desirable ship and the Romanogers ship causes grief for the protagonist.**

 **Hopefully the next story I post will be less depressing, but I hope that, although this is a tad heartbreaking, you derived some form of enjoyment from reading it. :)**


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